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In the political language of Miguel Díaz-Canel, few words carry as much symbolic weight —and practical emptiness— as “unity”.
The XI Plenary of the Communist Party of Cuba confirmed it once again: the leader does not speak of plurality, nor of diversity, nor of consensus. He speaks of a sacred unity, a kind of political communion where only revolutionary faith has a place.
The "unity" in the speech of the Cuban regime is not an ethical value or a civic principle. It is a strategy of social control meticulously disguised as patriotic virtue.
Díaz-Canel presents it as the "guarantee of independence and sovereignty," but in reality, it is the antonym of freedom of thought. In his words, "the unity we need is that of those who argue vigorously but march together."
The phrase, designed to sound democratic, encapsulates the essence of tropical totalitarianism: mock debates are allowed, as long as they do not change the course predetermined by the Party.
The idea is not new. In fact, Díaz-Canel is merely repeating, with a more administrative than epic tone, the foundational dogma that the dictator Fidel Castro left etched in 1961: “Within the Revolution, everything; against the Revolution, nothing.”
That phrase, which started as a cultural warning, ended up becoming an absolute political principle: the invisible boundary between what is permitted and what is prohibited. One could engage in debate, but only within the ideological perimeter defined by those in power. One could express disagreement, but never dissent.
Today, more than six decades later, the "revolutionary unity" is nothing more than the bureaucratic rehash of that Mephistophelian foundational mandate.
Unity as an Ideological Frontier
Who makes up that "unity"? The answer is implicit in the speech itself: the "revolutionaries," the "committed," those who resist "with dignity" against the external enemy. In other words, only those who adhere to the official narrative.
Others—opposition members, independent journalists, activists, critical intellectuals, or citizens with differing views—are excluded from the moral perimeter of the nation. They are not part of the people: they are "enemies," "confused," "subversives," or "mercenaries of the empire."
The Cuban regime has built a social system where political loyalty replaces citizenship. Those who do not align with the Party cease to be political subjects and become objects of suspicion. Thus, "revolutionary unity" does not unite: it purges. It does not integrate: it classifies. It does not strengthen the country: it confines it to a forced homogeneity.
Under this logic, pluralism is not a natural expression of modern society, but rather a danger that threatens the stability of the model. The diversity of ideas is not wealth, but fracture. Discrepancy is not participation, but betrayal.
The Constitution of the Party: A Country Shielded Against Diversity
This principle was enshrined in the 2019 Constitution, where Article 5 declares the Communist Party of Cuba as "the superior guiding force of society and the State."
The seemingly innocuous phrase is the legal heart of the autocracy: it legally prohibits any political alternative. No movement, party, or civic initiative can compete for power. The State is conflated with the Party, and the Party proclaims itself the embodiment of the people, the homeland, and the nation, for the greater glory and benefit of the elite in power.
Díaz-Canel invokes this structure with nearly religious fervor. "We are not a party of elites, but of the masses," he repeats, while presiding over an organization that allows no competition or oversight, and whose membership serves as a trap that opportunists relish and the faint-hearted endure.
In practice, the unit constitutionalizes obedience. It is the guarantee that nothing moves without permission from the Central Committee, and that any valid criticism is absorbed by the ritual of "internal debate," that closed space where discussions happen to avoid any change.
The participatory mirage
In his speech before the Plenary, Díaz-Canel emphasized the importance of “working with the people,” “being accountable,” and “involving the population in everything we do.”
They are phrases designed to sound participatory, but they lack substance in a context where the population neither elects nor can revoke its leaders. It is a simulation of participation: citizens express their opinions within the allowed margins, but decisions always come from above.
This formula is what the ruler himself calls "single-party democracy". The paradox is evident: democracy, by definition, implies pluralism. But the regime redefines it as cohesion under authority.
Thus, the government aims to replace diversity with disciplined consensus. In Díaz-Canel's speech, unity is not a means to the common good: it is an end in itself, the supreme value that justifies the sacrifice of all others.
The rhetorical emptiness of unanimism
The call for unity is also an act of political survival. Amid power outages, inflation, and collective weariness, the rhetoric of the "external enemy" no longer convinces even the most obedient militant.
For this reason, Díaz-Canel calls for the "unity that debates strongly," a desperate attempt to humanize the discipline of fear. But even that gesture contains an invisible limit: one can debate, but only within the framework of dogma; in other words, one cannot.
The term "unity" is, in essence, the worn-out magic word of a tired propaganda. It sounds patriotic, but it conceals an uncomfortable truth: the regime fears internal pluralism more than its own dictatorial shadow. Because the diversity of ideas threatens its power base, its monopoly on truth, its control over the national narrative.
The Machiavellian backdrop
From a political perspective, the use of "unity" serves a classic function of authoritarian power: to neutralize dissent through language.
Unity is not enforced solely through prisons or censorship, but through semantics. Those who oppose, "break the unity"; those who disagree, "play into the enemy's hands." Thus, power is ethically fortified: dissent is not legitimate, but morally reprehensible.
This mechanism recalls the advice of Machiavelli: maintaining power does not require being loved, but rather appearing just. In Cuba, the regime does not seek real unanimity—impossible in a fractured society—but the appearance of consensus. It is enough that no one dares to voice the contrary aloud.
The disbanding unit
But reality is less compliant than the rhetoric. The "unity" of Díaz-Canel crumbles every day in the lines, in the blackouts, in the airports crowded with young people emigrating. The people, that abstract subject the Party claims to represent, no longer marches alongside their leaders: for years they have been seeking exile.
In the 1960s, "unity" represented the triumph of a political project; today it signifies resignation. Its repeated invocation reveals more fear than strength: the fear of a system that has lost the ability to inspire and can only demand loyalty.
Díaz-Canel calls for a unity that "debates strongly," but the Cuban people have not engaged in debate for decades, or they do so quietly. Now they simply remain silent, survive, and watch as the power clings to the empty echo of its own words.
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